grenegome

Are the words “Once this ad ends you’ll be returned to your Live Journal experience” provoking a disproportionate reaction OF WRATH from anyone else?

Anyway, have some Mentalist fic that kind of got accidentally written whilst I was playing around in G-chat discussing an entirely different fandom. Guys, if fic for this OT3 exists elsewhere, please point me to it. My happiness will know no bounds.

Title: Aubade (With Me)
Fandom: The Mentalist
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Mashburn/Lisbon/Jane
Warnings: None, really. Unless we count a brief consideration of imagined sexual activity that might have some very light d/s undertones. Un-betad.
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not for profit.
Summary: After returning from his business trip to Europe, Walter Mashburn spends the night with Dirty Harry. His Sunday morning isn’t quite as peaceful as he expected.
Notes: I swear, I didn’t mean to write this. That seems to happen to me a lot in this fandom *facepalm* Concrit welcomed.
Word Count: 2562

Walter doesn’t expect to hear the door of his hotel suite open. Housekeeping have explicit instructions that he and his guest are not, for any reason, to be disturbed. He tips well, and usually makes the effort to be charming. Consequently, the staff like him, or are willing to pretend they do, and his whims are usually catered for. But there are footsteps in his suite, audible through the bedroom door.

He sighs and pulls the blanket a little higher over Teresa’s bare, strong shoulder, hiding the curve of her breast. Their understanding is a delicate thing, and she has the keeping of it, letting Walter know when she has time for him. She won’t have any time for him at all if she’s exhibited to the cleaning staff like his latest conquest.

Walter slips out of the bed and grabs a robe from the floor. Perhaps he can chase the overzealous staff member away without waking Teresa. He starts to creep towards the door of the bedroom, and then hesitates. The footsteps on the other side of the door are doing the same thing.

It could be anyone. Perhaps this is an excellent moment to wake the formidable CBI agent curled up in his bed. If discouraging their visitor requires any shooting, shouting or chasing, then Lisbon is the one with the appropriate skill sets.

Walter remains stationary, uncertain. And then hears a familiar voice calling softly, “Lisbon? Are you in there?”

Really. Teresa had warned him that the man got into everything, but Walter’s hotel suite? At seven on a Sunday morning?

He opens the door slightly and slips through, closing it behind him before Jane’s sharp eyes can get a full view of the room. “Patrick! An unexpected pleasure. Did you hypnotise the concierge?”

“The bellboy,” Jane says, with one of those lightning fast, sunshine bright smiles that have so many of the general populace eating from the palm of his hand. Jane is, as always, fully suited in his vaguely dishevelled fashion, and has evidently left his charm settings cranked to full. Walter feels none of the displeasure that should stem from having his lazy morning in bed interrupted by a lover’s co-worker.

“Simon? He seemed a bright lad.”

Jane gives him another smile, approving of this attention to detail. “Oh, he is. Intelligence has nothing to do with susceptibility.” Jane cocks his head, looking into Walter’s eyes for a brief, exhilarating moment, before taking note of Walter’s loosely tied gown and generally sleepy demeanour. Walter is being read. It’s amusing to think he has no secrets, that Jane can probably detail exactly what Walter had been doing last night, for how long, and how fantastic it had been. Walter tries to keep a straight face. He is not allowed to boast about Lisbon. It would be wrong to tell the rich, famous, glamorous people of his set that she outclasses all of them without even trying. But it doesn’t count as boasting if he doesn’t actually say anything, surely? He can’t be blamed for the fact that Patrick Jane sees everything, that he can pluck these thoughts straight out of Walter’s head.

“Good,” Patrick says, gaze moving across Walter’s mouth to finally settle on his eyes again. A benediction. The Patrick Jane seal of approval. “Make her smile,” Jane advises.

“Is that why you came?” Walter asks, honestly curious. Jane already knows what he wants for Teresa, or Jane would never have driven her crazy with his matchmaking antics.

“Oh no,” Jane says, shaking his head. “We have a case.”

“And the CBI couldn’t have called her?” he’s fairly certain that would be standard practice, rather than siccing a consultant on a senior agent. Jane answers by producing a cell phone, probably from his sleeve and not thin air, but it is hard to differentiate between the two. “They tried,” Jane says. “Somehow her cell phone slipped and fell into my pocket before her date last night.”

The burst of laughter escapes from Walter before he can do anything to stop it, loud and genuine. He doesn’t get to laugh that way very often.

“You’re a brave man, Patrick,” he says. There are other choice adjectives too. Meddlesome, capricious. But through Teresa, Walter has somehow fallen into the category of people Patrick Jane might choose to please, when the mood struck him. It is an interesting category to live in.

Patrick opens his mouth, a questioning expression on his face, when the bedroom door opens beside them.

“Walter?” mumbles a sleep-rough voice, and they both look around to see Teresa, bed-sheet robing her petite form like a messy haired figure of Justice. She holds her impromptu dressing gown closed with one hand, scrubbing sleep from her eyes with the other.

“Lisbon! Aren’t you a vision of loveliness!” Jane proclaims happily, and Walter belatedly realises the man has absolutely no sense of self preservation. Walter takes a step back, distancing himself from the field of battle.

“Jane.” Lisbon’s head snaps up, sudden shock making a brief appearance on her face before being abruptly chased away by outrage. Her gaze fastens on Patrick’s right hand, where he hasn’t had the sense to disappear the incriminating phone. “Is that my cell?” She’s moving before she’s even finished the question, and Patrick backs up, placating smile and relaxed body language doing nothing to stop her advance.

“Yes, you left it in the office. Which is where we need to be.”

“No I didn’t. It was in the pocket of my jacket, and then it wasn’t, Jane, and I didn’t have time to chase you around Sacramento to get it back.” Jane runs out of space to retreat into, and is brought up short by the suite wall. Lisbon looms at Jane, disregarding their difference in height through sheer force of will. She doesn’t snatch the cell back, but instead holds out her hand and says, “give it here.”

Jane hands it to her carefully, and she continues to berate him. “There could have been an emergency, Jane, I might have been needed- “

“You are needed,” he says easily. “Perhaps you should be mad at me later?”

“I’m going to be mad at you now and later. Apologise to Walter. I’m getting dressed.” With that she closes the door on them both. Jane simply leans against the wall as if it was his idea to lounge there in the first place and he’s happy to do so all day.

Walter forgets himself. The suite isn’t in keeping with his usual style. It’s all sleek minimalism. Bare white walls and chrome surfaces, stark and unappealing. Walter has never understood spending money to make it look as if he doesn’t own anything. He likes luxury, ostentation, clutter. Collections of things which are his, but this room isn’t. It’s his excuse for forgetting to be subtle, for looking in earnest at the Patrick Jane show, instead of with his usual detachment. Half asleep and full of rare contentment, he enjoys the golden curls and blue eyes and contagious smile, the warmest thing in the room. It takes Jane roughly three seconds to notice the nature of his attention, and to pin Walter with an amused look. Under the man’s questioning gaze, Walter waits, holding his breath to see if he has finally earned himself the brunt of Jane’s skills.

“That’s new,” Jane says instead.

“Not really. You catch the eye, but Lisbon is-”

“Lisbon. Yes. Without peer.”

Walter grins. Jane’s theatrics, his linguistic indulgences, make for enjoyable conversation. Without peer indeed. It occurs to Walter that praising Lisbon must be a worthy response in Jane’s eyes, because the man has yet to unsheathe his claws.

“Do I get my apology?” he asks, curious.

Jane stretches. “Perhaps. If you can let me know what the apology is for.”

“Breaking in, I think. Don’t you law enforcement types frown on that?”

Jane waves a key card at him, once more drawn out of the air. Walter suspects it could open any door in the building. “No breaking.”

Walter hides a smile as he scrubs his hand across his face. First thing in the morning is a terrible time to try and keep up with Patrick Jane. Walter has no illusions about the possibility of claiming victory in any of their encounters, but he can at least try and keep Jane’s interest. Not many people can, that much is obvious. Lisbon, and Lisbon’s people, have persuaded him to pay attention, but everyone else seems to flicker in and out of his life without touching him. There is one other, obvious exception, but it is a pleasant morning and Walter has no particular desire to sully it with thoughts of murder. Not when Jane might see it in his head. He must think on it often enough without any cues from Walter.

“Did you get Simon in trouble?” Walter asks instead.

“No. He was very helpful. I just got your room number from him. The key belongs to the concierge.”

Of course. Walter had pegged the concierge as a self aggrandizing bully after five seconds at the check in desk. And Jane has an entertainingly knee jerk response when it comes to antagonising those who abuse their power, no matter how trivial that power might be.

“Do the two of you have time for breakfast?” he asks.

“Of course. But you’ll have to convince Lisbon, she won’t believe me.”

Lisbon convinces herself, after a brief, professionally apologetic conversation with Special Agent Hightower on her reclaimed cell phone. Evidently she is instructed not to rush, because she consents to breakfast after Walter teases her into agreeing. Jane commandeers the menu, and the room phone, and Walter waits in anticipation of a sumptuous repast.

Room service deliver the food with carefully blank faces, and Jane is laughing as they leave.

“What?” Lisbon asks, on edge.

“Nothing!” Jane assures but his eyes are wicked, and Walter, still in his bathrobe and entertaining two ridiculously attractive people, can guess at what flitted through the staffs’ heads.

“What?” Lisbon repeats, fastening onto Walter instead. He spreads his hands disarmingly.

“They got the wrong idea,” he said simply.

“About...?”

“Jane, and you, and me.”

“What wrong idea? There’s no...” she stares into the distance blankly for a moment. “Oh. Well. That would be massively unprofessional.”

Jane pauses mid sip. “Unprofessional? Is that it? Not, ohhhh, scandalous? Intriguing?”

“You aren’t intriguing,” Lisbon counters, a little too quickly.

“Oh, I am. I’m the most intriguing person you’ve ever met. Aren’t I Walter?”

Walter has a good thing here. A good thing that’s stabbing her fork into a defenceless heap of scrambled eggs with a little too much vigor. “I plead the fifth,” Walter says, and Lisbon jerks her head up in surprise.

“Really? Intriguing?”

“Intriguing,” he repeats, because he has no intention of lying to her. “Is it a problem?” It might be. Teresa might view this as a symptom of debauchery, a sign of egotistical entitlement bred of having too much money and too few people willing to say no.

“I... have no idea,” she says, and her gaze flickers between the two men before her. Jane slouches low in his seat, Cheshire Catting them both lazily. “You’re thinking about it,” Jane says to Teresa, with the air of someone discovering a wonderful new game.

“No, you’re thinking about it.”

“I’m thinking about what you’re thinking. Professional hazard, Lisbon.”

“I’m thinking about what Walter’s thinking about,” she snaps, and then both their intent bright eyes are on him. Yes, that is worth thinking about.

He sets his mug down. “You’d be welcome Jane, if Lisbon wanted you to join us. But you wouldn’t accept the invitation.”

Lisbon sets her own mug down carefully.

“There is no invitation,” she says firmly, and her aborted glance at Jane’s wedding ring is barely perceptible.

“Of course not,” Jane says brightly, “I’m not that kind of boy.” And then he flashes Walter a parody of a sultry look, from underneath his lashes. “But, generally speaking, I don’t share Teresa's concern with ethics. If you want to spoil me in return for the non-sexual pleasure of my company, feel free.”

Walter can’t help it, he laughs again. He’s never been propositioned as someone's platonic sugar daddy before, and in all honesty, he’d spoil Jane rotten gleefully. It actually poses him difficulty sometimes, finding new things to spend his obscenely large personal fortune on. Jane, at least, could be relied on to do so inventively.

“Do you have any idea how spectacularly inappropriate that is?” Teresa asks. Walter is lost in his own amusement, and for a moment thinks Teresa is referring to their discussion. But then he refocuses on Jane, who slips a queried “Mmmm?” around the finger he’d just popped into his mouth. There’s honey smudged all along the handle of Jane’s tea-cup, from some kind of sweetening mishap, and Jane is sucking it from his fingers contentedly.

“Oh yes, very subtle,” Teresa says, and reaches over to grab Jane’s wrist. Patrick freezes, evidently surprised by the contact. Teresa takes no notice. “We’re leaving. Work to do.”

She stands up and Jane stands with her, suddenly docile in her grip. Teresa glances at him, concerned, and then lets go. “Jane?”

“Fine,” Jane says, meditatively, and then rotates his freed wrist, flexing the fingers.

Walter can’t quite pull his glance away from the man’s wrist. Lisbon could have kept hold, if she’d wanted, bodily removed Jane from the room without a great deal of effort. The thought catches and grows without Walter’s encouragement, little flickers of Lisbon, her natural power and authority for once quelling Jane. Jane on his knees, against a wall, over a bed. Lisbon standing over him each time, quiet and intent.

Walter takes a controlled breath and flattens the palms of his hands against the tablecloth. He isn’t very good at wanting things. Procuring and enjoying them, yes, but the wanting, that doesn’t usually last long enough for him to practice. He will have the opportunity with Jane.

Jane looks down on Walter with a small, quiet smile, expression tilted into wistfulness. “Work to do,” Jane echoes, and it almost has the tone of an apology. It isn’t an apology that needs making.

Walter is already aware that Jane’s playfulness is instinctive and without intent. He knows that Jane will hold himself apart, from Walter, from Teresa, until his work is done. The pleasure of his company will, indeed, have to be enough for them.

Walter tries to look his understanding at Jane, but the man is already turning back to Teresa, impish grin firmly in place, familiar object in the palm of his hand. “Forgetting something, Lisbon?”

Teresa slaps the empty pocket of her jacket, and then looks as if she might slap Jane. “What... give that back!” The cellphone, again. This time Jane doesn't surrender it. He spins around and makes a break for the doorway, laughing. Lisbon is in hot pursuit, not even pausing to make her farewells. Instead he is thrown a hasty, “see you later Walter!” over the shoulder of a vanishing Patrick Jane. The two of them burst out of his suite and into hallway.

“Call me when you’re done!” he shouts after them, and returns to his breakfast, reaching across the table for Jane’s abandoned tea.